Bianca
Let me set the scene.
The cafeteria was too bright. Like, migraine bright. Like, who-approved-these-light-fixtures bright. The tables were buzzing with chatter, metal trays clattered every five seconds, and the air smelled like perfectly cooked meat and desperation.
I sat in my usual seat—the center table, of course, perfect view of the doors, under the skylight so my hair basically glowed like a halo. And it seemed like everyone appreciated the effort I put in. Do you know how hard it is to maintain golden highlights in a school where the showers have minerals? I had to buy a specific shower head attachment. Ugh.
Anyway, I wasn’t listening to my friends’ conversation. Jessica was sayig something about shoes. Or maybe boys. Or maybe both. I was too busy replaying the stupid, h
